


Whistlin' Past the Graveyard

by in_lighter_ink



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-15
Updated: 2011-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-15 16:55:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/in_lighter_ink/pseuds/in_lighter_ink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade gets nightmares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whistlin' Past the Graveyard

**Author's Note:**

> Short fill for the sherlockbbc kinkmeme. Unbeta'd.

He doesn't wake up screaming.

He wakes up shaking, breath harsh, stench of blood in his nostrils, taste of copper and iron and fear in the back of his throat. The room is dark, but that doesn't mean he can't still see them: glassy eyes bright with accusation, lifeless and staring out at him from countless, bloodless faces.

His bed suddenly is too much like a grave, and the feeling's almost enough to send him spiraling further into panic. It's easier to focus on controlling his breathing now that he's thrown off the duvet _(and it's not a coffin lid because he's_ alive _, damn it, and there's nothing he can do right now about those that aren't)_ , now that his feet are on the ground and steering him out of the bedroom completely.

Into the living room, past the bathroom, and he's successfully resisted the urge to wash his hands _(he's awake, and that means the blood covering them is only metaphorical now)_. They won't stain the windowsill if he rests them there while his forehead drops against the glass, cold and unyielding and in a few minutes it'll be enough to jar him into seeing the street below. Clear and ordinary and not at all the bleak and bloody cityscape that he sees when his eyes are closed.

There's a low hum behind him, a soft warning so he's not startled by the hand that drops onto his shoulder, thumb stroking along tense muscle. He draws a shuddering breath and the hand slides down to his chest, pulls him gently back into an embrace: careful, warm, solid. A cup of tea nudges against his wrist _(didn't hear the kettle, only the echoes of screams and the racing beat of his heart)_ , and there's a kiss placed precisely at the nape of his neck when he accepts it. As he buries his nose in the steam, in the aroma of comfort and bergamot and sanity, an arm wraps around his waist, tight and safe.

It's been nearly four years of nights like this, nearly four years since Mycroft had silenced his protestations with an arrogant eyebrow. _(You're readying what I'm sure would be a charmingly tactful rebuff of my advances if I had any intention of allowing you to proceed with it. My dear Gregory, did you for a moment imagine that there would be any circumstance under which I would believe such a rejection, when the attraction is so obviously and deliciously mutual? I assure you, it would take far more than chronic nightmares to wrest me from your side.)_ It hadn't been the first time a Holmes had rendered him speechless that day.

Not that speech had proved necessary: Mycroft could easily read the shape of Greg's nightmares in the set of his shoulders, mercifully saving him from having to put them into words.

Another minute, and he stops shaking.


End file.
